


Stick And Carrot

by valiantlybold



Series: trust me [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Begging, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Caning, Dirty Talk, Dom Jaskier, Dom/sub Play, Impact Play, Jaskier takes care of geralt, Light Bondage, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Praise Kink, Punishment, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Subspace, Topping from the Bottom, Total Power Exchange, Trust, Trust Kink, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantlybold/pseuds/valiantlybold
Summary: Geralt's day is bad as soon as it begins, but Jaskier knows how to help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: trust me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608811
Comments: 30
Kudos: 714





	Stick And Carrot

It’s a bad day from the start.

When Geralt wakes up, his head is already in that dangerously empty place. Jaskier seems to notice. It’s been months now, since the first time. Since then, Jaskier has somehow figured out how to read Geralt. As soon as Jaskier _sees_ Geralt, sitting hunched by the fire, fiddling with his saddle-bags, he just seems to _know_ what’s going on.

“How many hours did you sleep, Witcher?” is the first thing he asks.

Geralt grunts, focused on the bag.

_“Witcher.”_

His voice is _sharp._ He has figured out _exactly_ what voice to use to _get to_ Geralt.

Geralt looks up.

“Packing.”

Jaskier isn’t smiling. He looks serious. That is not a common look for Jaskier’s pretty face.

“I asked you a question, Witcher. How many hours did you sleep?”

Geralt looks away. He knows that his answer will lead to punishment, because it isn’t the answer that Jaskier wants.

“Two. I think.”

Jaskier’s eyes fall closed as he sighs. He gets up from his bedroll and shuffles over to where Geralt sits.

He pulls Geralt to him, until Geralt can lean his head against the bard’s belly. He pets Geralt’s hair, not complaining when his fingers get tangled in its knots.

Geralt is still not sure how to feel about, how to handle, how gentle Jaskier is with him. It doesn’t feel right to be treated so gently. He doesn’t deserve the gentleness. He deserves _punishment._

“You know the rules, dear Witcher,” Jaskier tells him softly.

Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s leg. The gentleness feels good, but it feels undeserved.

“You know how it goes. Four hours of sleep, or punishment.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Geralt mumbles. “Please…”

“Are you tired, Witcher?”

Geralt shakes his head against Jaskier’s stomach. “Just…messy. Everything is messy. Need to clean, organize. Put it in order.”

Jaskier pets his head. “Alright, Witcher. Meditate for me. One hour. _Then_ you can clean up the mess. After that, we’ll deal with your punishment. How does that sound, darling?”

The Witcher grunts. He clings to Jaskier’s pant-leg. “Good.”

“Go on, then. Do your meditating.”

Geralt stands up. He lumbers back over to the bedrolls and sits down. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him as he gets comfortable.

He meditates until he is told to stop. Jaskier keeps track of time, he knows that.

Jaskier wakes him with a soft voice, rousing him very gently from his meditative state. He is presented with a serving of leftovers from last night, along with some bread, nuts, and berries.

Geralt isn’t hungry.

Jaskier can tell just from looking at him, what he’s thinking.

“You need to eat, Witcher. How else are you going to be strong enough to clean up the mess?”

He knows how to put it in a way that makes sense. Geralt won’t be able to fix the mess if he’s too hungry to stand. Food is good for him. Eating is good for him. It will give him strength.

He takes the food and eats slowly.

He feels close to nauseous. Dry meat and stale bread eases the feeling. The berries are sour and the nuts crack in his jaw. Jaskier watches him eat. He’s making sure Geralt eats everything. Geralt doesn’t want to add to his punishment; he eats everything.

“Alright, Witcher,” Jaskier says once he is finished. “Tell me, where is the mess?”

Geralt swallows. His tongue is a knot in his throat. He usually doesn’t talk much, but that’s by choice. Now, like this, it’s almost as if he _can’t._

But he has to answer a question when it is asked.

“Bags. They’re all…not right. Roach. She’s, she’s dirty. My armor isn’t… _A Witcher’s life is his armor._ I need to- Need to- I just-”

Jaskier can see him falling to pieces. He hushes Geralt softly, reaches out, pets Geralt’s hair, caresses his cheek.

“I know, Witcher,” he says. “I know. Start with the bags. Get them in order. Make sure it’s neat. I’ll be inspecting them when you’re done.”

Geralt nods. “Yessir.”

“That’s a good Witcher,” Jaskier tells him, smiling. “Make me proud.”

Geralt’s chest clenches. He will make Jaskier proud. “Yessir.”

Geralt goes back to the saddle-bags. He can see a little more clearly now. Jaskier has cleared away some of the fog. He can see his task clearly in front of him and approach it head on.

He will restore order. He will make Jaskier proud.

Geralt works through bag after bag. He saves Jaskier’s bag for last. He is gentle with the bard’s notebooks. They contain his life’s work. They must be treated with respect. He folds his clothes carefully. He places everything back into the bag almost reverently. This will make Jaskier proud.

Jaskier sits by the fire, strumming aimlessly at his lute, watching Geralt. The Witcher treats the lute’s case like a treasure. He wipes it down with one of the cleanest rags he can find, scrubbing away the spots of dirt and mud. When he is finished, he folds it and places it next to where Jaskier sits.

“I’m finished.”

The bard hums. He first regards the lute case, inspects how it’s folded.

“Very good,” he says.

Geralt swallows.

Jaskier sets the lute down as he gets up. He inspects all the other bags and is careful not to disturb the order Geralt has made. He hums and haws as he checks them over. It feels like Geralt’s heart is racing when Jaskier put down the last bag. The bard returns to Geralt, standing before him.

Geralt has to try too hard not to flinch, when Jaskier raises his hand. He expects to be hit; that was always the way it would go, if they didn’t do good enough.

But instead, Jaskier smiles and pets his cheek.

“You did very well, Witcher,” he says.

Geralt’s eyes fall closed. He lets out the breath he had been holding.

“I’m proud of you for this, Witcher. You did so good. You folded all my clothes so nicely!”

He did it. He made Jaskier proud.

With his eyes closed, the soft kiss comes as a surprise. It’s a sweet little thing, pressed gently to the corner of his mouth, just barely missing his lips. Geralt almost wants to catch him, pull him in, kiss him for real, he wants it so badly; but that isn’t allowed. He is only allowed to take what he is given. Nothing more.

“There,” Jaskier says when he pulls away, making Geralt wrench his eyes open. “That’s your reward for taking such good care of all those bags.”

There were never rewards; only punishments.

“Now, then! I think Roach could use a good scrub-down, don’t you?” Jaskier says, effortlessly changing the subject. “Be a dear and take care of her, won’t you?”

Geralt nods almost frantically. “Yessir.”

Roach greets him with a light headbutt to the chest and a whinny. He manages to smile as he pats her. Her legs are caked in mud; they had had to ride through a brush of rain yesterday morning. He’s sure it must be getting uncomfortable for her. He unties her from the tree he’d hitched her too and leads her into the woods, down a small slope to a little stream. She doesn’t complain as he cleans her off and brushes her down. He takes care to check her hooves and shoes. He manages to talk to her softly. It’s hard to make the words come out right but he tries.

Jaskier is waiting when Geralt leads Roach back to camp. He lets Geralt tie her back up at the same spot as before. Once Geralt steps back, Jaskier gets to work. He pets the old girl fondly and she is happy to be pet. He looks her over intently, runs his fingers through her mane to check for knots.

Geralt can hardly breathe as Jaskier steps over to him again, just like before.

“Very nice,” Jaskier tells him. “She looks fresh as a foal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you want your reward now, or do you want to save it for later?”

“Now. Please.”

Jaskier hums. He stands up on his toes and presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. It’s been a long time since Geralt felt his heart _flutter_ like that. It takes Geralt’s breath away when Jaskier walks away. He watches the bard leave, return to the fire and throw himself down on his bedroll with is lute.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Witcher?” he says conversationally, tuning one of his strings. “As far as I recall, your armor won’t take care of itself. Don’t forget to look over your swords too.”

_“Yessir.”_

He wastes no time; he sets to work on his armor.

The promise of reward is much more motivating than the threat of punishment.

He cleans every piece of his armor twice, then treats the leather to keep it battle-ready. It takes a long time but it’s worth it. Running the sharpening stone over each sword is an almost meditative process. All he has to do is repeat the same motion and count the strokes.

When he’s done, he lays both armor and sword at Jaskier’s feet. Jaskier doesn’t know much about either weapons or armor, but even he can tell they have been cared for well.

Geralt sits on his knees, tense as he waits for Jaskier to finish.

It takes a long time.

It’s almost as if Jaskier is drawing it out, just to torture Geralt.

“Good.”

Geralt can breathe again.

“You did very good, Witcher,” Jaskier tells him. _“Now._ First, we must deal with your punishment. _Then,_ you can have your reward for being good.”

Geralt swallows. “Yessir.”

“Go on. You know what to do.”

Geralt gets up. He gets his knife. He walks into the woods.

His sharp eyes scan over the trees.

He has to find the right one. It was to be _just right._

His heart speeds up more and more the longer he searches. He knows this is supposed to be part of his punishment, but he can’t find it in himself to care, because after the punishment comes the reward.

Stick and carrot.

First he gets the stick, then he gets the carrot.

That’s the way it works with Jaskier.

The stick makes sure Geralt _is_ good, the carrot makes sure Geralt _stays_ good.

He spots a good birch tree and decides that this is the one. He has to climb up a short bit to find the best of the branches. He easily cuts off a young branch that will suit their needs. He sits down under the tree for a while. With the knife, he strips the stick of its leaves and whittles down the knots. With the flat side of the blade, he wears down the rougher spots of bark.

There. Now its perfect.

Geralt finds his way back to camp.

Jaskier has already prepared when he arrives. He has dragged one of the smaller logs they had used as seats by the fire, over closer to the bedrolls. He had draped a fur over it to soften the hard surface. A very long length of ribbon lies coiled up on top of the fur.

“There you are,” Jaskier says, smiling.

“Yessir. Found a switch, sir.”

“Good boy!” Jaskier praises, happy as can be. “Come here! Let me see!”

Geralt hurries over and offers him the stick. Like every task before it, Jaskier inspects his work in detail. Geralt watches those slender fingers run along the full length of the switch, searching for rough, uneven spots. Jaskier’s smile widens when he finds none.

Geralt’s heart pounds against his ribs so hard he thinks it might just jump out of his chest, when Jaskier pets his cheek.

“Undress.”

Jaskier steps back, fully enraptured by his switch again. Geralt feels _abandoned_ for a moment; he warms himself with the knowledge that Jaskier will pay attention to him again soon.

Geralt sets the knife aside, then begins to undress. Knowing how Jaskier prefers it, he folds his clothes neatly.

He kneels on the bedrolls and looks up at Jaskier.

“Open.”

Geralt opens his mouth.

Jaskier places the switch in his mouth as if it were the bit of a horse’s bridle. The bard pats him on the head. He moves behind Geralt. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches Jaskier grab the ribbon.

“Hands behind your back.”

Geralt does as he’s told.

The silky ribbon wraps around his wrists a few times, then is knotted off. The ribbon brushes against his back; Geralt shivers.

Jaskier hushes him softly. A warm hand on Geralt’s shoulder grounds him. He swallows tightly, then nods.

He take the switch from Geralt’s mouth. The taste of bark is still bitter on the Witcher’s tongue.

“Comfortable like that?”

Geralt nods. He’s not sure he still has the ability to talk. He’s waited so long. He needs to be punished, beaten back into the right shape, reminded of who and what he is.

Jaskier tugs on the ribbons between Geralt’s wrists, reminding him of his _position._

“I surely hope I don’t have to remind you, Witcher, that when I ask a question, I must hear an answer.”

The Witcher swallows again.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yessir. It’s good, sir.”

His voice breaks as he speaks, and a part of him knows that he would die of embarrassment at something like that normally, but right now, all that matters is that he answered the question he was asked.

Jaskier pats his head again. “Good. Get in position.”

The switch taps harmlessly against Geralt’s arm, urging him on.

Geralt shuffles on his knees. His face feels hot like never before. He can’t remember the last time he actually _blushed._ He leans over onto the log, resting his chest on the soft pelt, arching his back to stick his ass out. He lets his head hang as he tries desperately to catch his breath. _Why is he so out of breath?_ It feels like there just isn’t enough _air_ in the world.

His head is spinning.

He is _excited_ to be punished. He _wants_ to be punished.

He feels sick at wanting _that,_ all the bad memories make him sick at the thought of ever _wanting_ to be punished, but the way Jaskier does it… Gods, Geralt would be glad to be punished like this every day, if it was Jaskier doing it.

His cock hangs heavy and hard, precum dripping lazily.

Years ago, before Jaskier, Geralt could never have imagined getting _hard_ at the thought of _this._

_But here he is._

“Alright, then, Witcher,” Jaskier says behind him. “Today, you are being punished for breaking the rules. I’ve told you a hundred times, _you sleep at least four hours a night,_ and yet, you tell me _you think_ you’ve done two, at most. So, that will be ten lashes for each hour you slept, and ten lashes for each hour _didn’t_ sleep. Can you do that math for me, darling?”

Geralt’s mouth feels like he swallowed half a desert.

“F-Forty, sir.”

“Be a dear and count for me, will you?”

“Yessir.”

“Ready?”

_Fuck, just do it already, the waiting is tearing at Geralt’s nerves._

“Ready, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“I-I’m sure, sir.”

“Really, really sure?”

A keen leaves Geralt and if anyone other than Jaskier ever heard it, he would have to kill them.

“Really, really sure, sir.”

“Really, totally, absolutely sure you’re ready?”

“Yes! Yessir! I’m ready!”

He grinds his teeth, he waits for the first lash, the anticipation could very well be killing him.

“Why are you being punished?”

“I broke the rul- _gah, fuck!”_

The switch comes down across his ass in a swift rap, hard enough that he feels the pain radiate through his whole body, every muscle tensing up all at once.

_“Count for me, Witcher.”_

Geralt pants for air, going lax again. “One.”

“Why are you being punished?”

“I broke th- _shit!”_

The switch hits in almost the exact same spot. At first comes the needling pain, then comes the overwhelming burn.

“Two!” he grits out.

“What’s that, darling? Couldn’t quite hear you!”

“I bro- _fuck!”_

It crosses the other lashes, reigniting their dying embers of pain and joining up into a roaring fire. His skin is _on fire._

_“Three!”_

He’s about to peal himself out of his skin when _Gods know how many_ lashes hit in rapid succession. They criss-cross his ass and down his thighs, and the way his back is arched almost put his balls in danger which sends a screaming flare of fear up his spine.

_Fuck, he lost count, he can’t tell one lash from the next, how many was that, he can’t even make a guess, his head feels like it’s melting._

“Did you lose count, darling?”

The ties around his wrists groan as he tries to move. _He keens._

“I-I-I los-st cou- count.”

He’s shaking; he _aches._ Despite everything he has been through, Geralt will swear on anything that _this_ is the worst pain that he has ever endured, the worst torture he could ever be put through.

But Jaskier pets his head and everything is worth it.

“That’s alright, sweet thing,” Jaskier says.

His voice is soft and impossibly close, or maybe that’s Geralt’s ears playing tricks; it wouldn’t surprise him, he can’t tell which way is up anymore, how is he supposed to keep his senses in check?

“It’s okay, darling. I forgive you. How about you just focus on breathing, darling, and I’ll do the counting?”

“Tha- Thank you…”

He’s panting, the fur growing hot under his breath. Tears spill down his cheeks.

There are still so many lashes left, and he isn’t sure if he will survive it.

At the next flash of pain cutting him in half, he can’t tell if it’s only one lash, or if it’s more. His ass feels like it’s on fire and each lash is just pouring fuel on the flames.

But it feels so good.

He is being punished but it’s not the same as the _bad_ punishments, it’s a _good_ punishment somehow; Jaskier takes care of him. He gives Geralt the kind of painful grounding he needs, without torturing him with it. He punishes in a way that makes Geralt’s body feel fizzy, like there’s thunder and lightning crackling under his skin, it makes Geralt’s head spin and he feels breathless even as he takes deep, gasping breaths.

“That’s ten, love,” Jaskier says.

A hand pets his back. He shivers under lute-callused fingers.

“How do you feel, darling?”

“G-Good, sir. So good.”

“That’s good, darling. How about we do another three sets of ten for you? Hm? Get it over with quick. How does that sound?”

“Yes, yessir, yes,” the Witcher whimpers.

He cries out, completely unlike himself, when those _rough-gentle_ fingers run across his ass, tracing the marks left by the switch.

 _Fuck,_ he wants to crawl out of his skin, it hurts beyond belief, beyond words; all he can do is squirm under the touch, though, because for all his inhuman Witcher strength, he can’t bring himself to actually _move._ It’s as though all that strength and power has been sapped out of his body by the switch.

He feels like a wild animal brought to heel by a trainer. He’s being tamed and trained to do silly tricks for the enjoyment of his master, but _he doesn’t care._ All that matters is that all his broken pieces are being puzzled back together into a shape similar to what he had been before.

The switch comes down again, _over and over and over again,_ and Geralt grits his teeth and bears through it, and wants to carve the ache out of his bones.

He’s crying. Sobbing.

It’s hard to breathe, the snot clogging his nose and the drool dripping from his mouth; he must look like a rabid animal, tied down and foaming at the mouth, but when Jaskier pets his hair, he feels like an obedient lapdog.

“That’s my favorite Witcher for you, that,” Jaskier says. “So very good at being punished, and looking absolutely gorgeous while doing it. That’s twenty, dear. Just another twenty left. Can you take it, Witcher?”

 _“I can take it!”_ Geralt shouts, louder than he means to.

There is molten steel in his bloodstream; he’s going to melt. It pumps sluggishly through him, the heat makes him shiver.

He’s not even in pain anymore. Not quite. It isn’t quite pain any longer. It’s like he’s been cut open to expose every nerve in his body, and Jaskier is playing him like an instrument, strumming his nerves like the strings of his lute, sending tingling shocks of _sensation_ through Geralt’s system. It isnt pain, it's just bouts of _feeling_ that are almost too overwhelming to handle.

He feels like honey poured into a leather bag; gooey and runny and soft and only vaguely shaped like the person he once was.

Jaskier could _say_ anything to him, _do_ anything to him, and Geralt wouldn’t care. He feels too removed from himself that nothing matters anymore.

“That’s thirty, love,” the bard tells him.

He hadn’t even been able to tell he was being hit.

“You look so beautiful, darling. Falling apart for me like this, taking your punishment like a good little Witcher.”

Geralt wants to answer, he wants to say something, but his brain has turned into honey and he can’t figure out how to make words. Instead, he lets out a sound like a wounded animal.

“I know, sweet thing, but there isn’t much left now. Just another ten, then you get your reward. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Just a little more. Think you can hang on a little longer for me? Think you can be good for me, just a little longer?”

 _“Y-Yes,”_ he chokes out somehow, drool dripping from his slack jaw.

 _“Darling,_ I knew it, dear, I know you can do it, just a little bit more.”

Beautiful musician’s fingers strum at his strings again; he quivers under them, under their beloved mercy.

Time is beyond his comprehension. It could take half a minute, an hour, a year, or a century; he can’t tell anymore, it’s simply beyond the scope his world. All that matters when he’s like this, is the fact that he deserves this punishment and once he has taken his punishment, he will be rewarded.

He tries his hardest just to breathe.

His body feels like a block of ice but his ass is on fire. The blood thrums through him, reaching its boiling point as it passes under the welts and melting the rest of his icy body as it moves within him.

Before he knows it, one of Jaskier’s warm hands is on his hip, petting his side.

“That’s it, Witcher, that’s all forty of them.”

The other hand makes itself known; it sneaks between Geralt’s abused thighs, cradling his balls. Geralt would _scream,_ if he could. Instead, his mouth hangs pointlessly open, eyes rolling back in his head. Fuck, he’d forgotten all about his cock, about his _weirdgrossdisgusting_ horniness, but one touch now almost sends him over the edge.

“Did so well for me, darling, you took all forty lashes perfectly, not a single complaint.”

 _Fuck,_ it hurts to force out words; “ _please,”_ he croaks.

“I know, darling, I know. Need to move just a little bit, then I’ll take such good care of you, give you the best reward.”

He trusts Jaskier.

Jaskier’s hands on his arms help him move, somehow the thin boy carries so much of Geralt’s weight. It’s hard to understand what’s happening; his brain can’t stay in control of his eyes, everything seems too bright at first then it becomes too dark and he can’t find a middle-ground so he gives up and closes his eyes.

He’s sitting; more on his lower back than on his ass, thankfully, feet planted to keep his legs bent and his poor skin away from the rough fabric of the bedrolls. He leans back on the fur, elbows just barely reaching the ground, wrists still knotted together.

His cock feels harder than steel, where it lays against his belly, smearing himself in precum.

Jaskier’s perfect hands cradle his face.

When Geralt opens his eyes, the light is perfect, because he has Jaskier to focus on. Perfect, beautiful, kind, benevolent, _magic_ Jaskier, who is naked too, who is straddling Geralt’s mid-section, who is looking down at him with the softest smile and the warmest eyes.

Geralt could _cry,_ when Jaskier moves one of his hands. Geralt watches it disappear behind the bard’s back, then he feels it wrap around his cock, and then he really does _cry._ He feels messy, salty tears streak down his face, mixing with the pouring sweat. Jaskier hushes him gently, leaning in.

It’s by no means a kiss. It’s Jaskier trying to kiss Geralt, and Geralt being unable to do anything in response. He can just revel in the feeling of Jaskier’s lips brushing his, his tongue probing past Geralt’s lips and caressing every inch of his mouth.

When he feels Jaskier’s oiled rim brush his cockhead, he feels like he’s about to die. His heart groans under the effort of remaining beating. He can’t breathe at all, despite how hard he tries.

“That’s my Witcher,” Jaskier whispers. “Breathe for me, darling, you’ll feel so good in a moment.”

He tries, _oh, he tries_ so hard to breathe because Jaskier told him to and he doesn’t want to screw up now, not now, when he’s on the verge of bring rewarded. He can’t fuck it up now, after everything he’s endured, he deserves this and he won’t let it be taken away.

He hears a scream just as he feels Jaskier sink onto his cock, and a tiny little part of his brain recognizes that it was _Geralt_ who screamed.

Everything shrinks down to the burning feeling of sinking into Jaskier’s body; all the pain and chaos falls away, is pealed back, until all that exists is being inside Jaskier, where he is enveloped in the most brilliant heat.

“That’s my Witcher, _Gods,_ you feel good,” Jaskier moans, his breath hot against Geralt’s lips in another not-kiss. “My darling, perfect man, you’ve been so good.”

He can’t imagine anything better than the way Jaskier rides him. His motions are slow and small, barely more than grinding down on a cock that already bottomed out inside him, barely letting Geralt leave his warmth for even a moment. The way he clenches and flutters around Geralt is _more_ than enough, it’s _more_ than he could ever need.

Jaskier’s forehead presses gently to his, arms wrap around him and rest on the log, embracing him but not leaning on him.

They breathe together, they breathe the same air, and Geralt feels like he _must_ be in heaven.

“Cum for me, Witcher,” Jaskier pants. “Take your reward, it’s yours, you can take it.”

_Oh, Gods, fuck, no, it’s too much, it’s just too much, he’s been struck by lightning and the electricity fires through his body, and his vision goes white._

_“That’s it, that’s my darling boy, take it, you’ve been so good.”_

He’s been good, he’s been so good, he did good, he made Jaskier happy, he made Jaskier proud, he did good.

*

Jaskier pumps his cock as fast as he can; if he doesn’t cum, he’s going to lose his fucking mind, but he needs to get it out quick because he needs to take care of Geralt.

The orgasm itself isn’t even _half_ as satisfying as it was to watch Geralt turn to mush for him.

He lets Geralt’s cock slip out of him, at which the man barely makes a sound. He’s too far gone to notice anymore, it would seem. It’s almost better that way. It’ll be easier to take care of him.

Jaskier undoes the knotted ribbon behind Geralt’s back and pulls his hand free. He spends a moment massaging his wrists, making sure the blood-flow is all good and proper. Geralt is a dead weight, but with how limp and loose his body is, Jaskier still manages to move him rather alright, if he does say so himself.

He get Geralt laid out on his chest, tries to get him comfortable. He spends some time rubbing a soothing salve on the man’s _very lovely_ bottom, then lays down next to him, covering them both with a few blankets.

He has food and water at the ready for when Geralt wakes up, but beyond that, there isn’t much to do other than…well, hold him. He is sure Geralt isn’t aware of what he’s doing, but after only a few minutes, the Witcher starts to stir, moving shakily. He finds Jaskier and pulls him in, wraps his arms around the bard and curls against his chest.

Jaskier only smiles and pets the Witcher’s head as he sleeps.


End file.
